


Absolution

by SapphicScholar



Category: Grace and Frankie (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Flashbacks, Grace-centric, Post-Season/Series 05, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 08:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19291819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphicScholar/pseuds/SapphicScholar
Summary: "But four was safe. Four sins. Four lapses. Four things to be confessed and forgiven, purged and forgotten."





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: As a once very Catholic, very closeted, very gay lady, my mind jumped straight to religion for confession, so I ran with it and also played more with form and temporality than I normally do… Figure that’s what these little ficlets are for!
> 
> Heads up on some internalized homophobia and brief references to disordered eating

_ Grace inhales deeply, fills her nose and mouth and lungs with the air that feels a little thicker than outdoor air, heavy with mysteries and promises and millennia of history. Incense wafts through the chapel—smoky and spiced in a way that lingers, just barely, in her clothes and hair for the first few hours after she’s left the church. Grace tries to let the familiarity of it ground her as she readjusts the pristine white lace of her chapel veil, thinking back to the days of elementary school, remembering little Katherine Agostino who had always forgotten hers, been forced by Sister Patricia to pin a tissue to her hair instead, blushed a bright red when the boys laughed at her as the line of girls was marched over to the church. Grace’s had always been in perfect order—none of the frayed edges or grayish tinges that had marred the other girls’ veils. No matter how tight money was, her mother always ensured that they looked respectable, neat, orderly; they would not be the children talked about in hushed tones at the market or after mass. The fact that they whisper about her now, the 26-year-old without any prospects for a husband and we all know what  _ that  _ means, isn’t lost on her, but she tries to focus on her rosary beads, repeats the well-known words silently as she waits for her turn in the confessional. _

\---

The beach house never smells like Clorox bleach and fresh linens anymore. It overflows with a bounty of smells. A different kind of incense—something with hints of hickory and jasmine and a heady combination of spices. Freshly toasted Eggo waffles and the slightly burnt smell of crystallized sugar from when Frankie had popped a syrupy waffle back into the toaster to see if she could make a creme brulée-waffle hybrid. A few times a year the vats of boiling yams that Grace has only recently admitted make an end product that’s worth the messy, smelly process of its creation. The acrylic paints that remind Grace of the studio but that have begun making their way into the main house too. That lavender chamomile organic soap Frankie buys _ — _ or, more often, asks Grace to buy for her _ — _ from the farmer’s market. Despite the years of complaining about it, when Frankie left for New Mexico Grace found herself missing the particular bouquet of smells that was Frankie’s presence, thinking the house smelled too sterile. Even after Sheree moved in and started filling the house with the aroma of melting cheese and butter and chocolate, it still hadn’t been right. And when she and Frankie moved back into the house after their stay at Walden Villas, she practically invited it, determined to rid the house of the lingering smell of the focus-group-approved candle that every fucking real estate agent in California seemed to burn. These days Grace’s bedroom is permeated by the smell of Frankie and her incense and her soaps and shampoos and paints, and there’s nothing fleeting about it. 

\---

_ After two decades of the rosary, it’s Grace’s turn to go back to the confessional. She kneels down and waits for the priest to finish with the person on the other side. She’s only been to this church once or twice, when she happened to be visiting family who lived across the lines for the neighboring parishes, but she doesn’t want to confess these things to Father Thomas who’s known her since he baptized her, who she just knows recognizes every voice even if he’s sworn to secrecy about the specifics of what she says. Then Father Patrick is there, the vague outline of his face visible through the screen as he tells her to begin. She clears her throat. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Her fingers tap lightly against her forehead, her chest, her shoulders. She feels the sharpness of the bone through the thin fabric of her dress and relishes in it. “My last confession was five weeks ago.” The last one where she’d been honest was about eight years ago, though. But today is about making that right. Today is about moving forward, about doing things right.  _

\---

“Things need to be different moving forward.” Those were the first words out of Frankie’s mouth when Grace returned to the beach house, suitcase in hand, the rest of her belongings in the process of being moved out of Nick’s penthouse _ — _ not that she’d ever got around to bringing most of them over, their whirlwind marriage barely lasting a full two months before she caved and admitted it had never been what she wanted, had been a way to make her forget the things she really wanted. Grace had nodded, sworn to Frankie that she understood. She didn’t say anything, but she was fairly certain that going back to the way things were before would have killed her; she didn’t leave a marriage only to make the same mistakes again. Within three weeks of the divorce’s finalization, they’d found their path forward into that “different” in a way that Grace had never dared to articulate as a hope _ — _ not even to herself. But then Frankie was there, telling her these things were possible, telling her she understood even without the words, dragging her into an unknown future that Grace knows _ — _ a knowledge rooted somewhere deep inside herself _ — _ will be better. 

\---

_ Four. Four had always been the best number of sins to confess. Maybe you could get away with three if it had only been a week, but two was proof that you were lazy, hadn’t sat with the reflection questions long enough to evaluate your life and judge your past choices. Five was getting up there, but so long as most of them were venial sins, the kind you technically didn’t have to go to confession for, little things like fighting with your brother, it was probably okay. More than five, though, and suddenly you were trouble. But four was safe. Four sins. Four lapses. Four things to be confessed and forgiven, purged and forgotten.  _

_ She knows she’s supposed to start with any mortal sins, work her way into the lesser ones, but she needs to build up to things. So she takes a deep breath and begins, “Father, I have taken the Lord’s name in vain twice.” Times about 20. “I was unkind to one of my coworkers.” He’d deserved it, of course. “This past week, I missed mass.” She actually did feel guilty about that, but she’d thought about, well, about doing the very thing she’s finally doing the night beforehand and had drunk enough to wake up feeling like she’d already been to hell and clawed her way back out. “And…” She swallows heavily. “I, uh…” There had been a script. She had opted not to bring it with her, though, hadn’t wanted the small piece of paper fluttering to the ground somewhere people not sworn to secrecy might see it. But this is the whole reason she’s here. She’s trying to make amends, move forward, do right by her family and God. “There were indiscretions,” she finally manages, her voice sounding strangled and wrong to her own ears. “It was a moment of weakness.” That was what Margaret had called it the next morning, the warm haze of the previous night’s wine long dissipated in the chill New England morning air. “I am sorry for these sins”—her stomach churns, the swirl of grief and guilt making it hard to breath—”and all the sins of my life, and I ask for absolution and penance of thee, my father.” _

\---

The first time she and Frankie fight _ — _ and really fight, not the bickering that is its own love language between them at this point _ — _ after getting together, Grace can admit is her fault. They’d been out at a restaurant, Frankie determined to “court you properly,” as she’d explained it, and had run across two of Grace’s old country club friends out with their husbands. It only occurred to Grace after the fact that they likely would have assumed she and Frankie were simply out to dinner as friends _ — _ though they would judge her for the friendship with Frankie as much as anything. But in the moment, she’d panicked, pushed herself as far back into her chair as she could, laughed too loudly and nodded too eagerly when they asked if there might be another man in her life after Nick, ordered a few too many martinis once they’d gone back to their own table. She’d been able to see the hurt reflected in Frankie’s eyes through the rest of the stilted, silent meal, but when Frankie had called her on it later, she’d lashed out, yelled at Frankie for rushing her, told her it wasn’t fair of her to expect Grace to let go of the values she’d been raised on all in one breath. 

The next morning, Grace wakes up  late, later than she can remember sleeping in ages, with a pounding headache and a stomach she won’t dare try putting food into, but even with the intensity of her hangover, she feels the guilt most of all. After a long, too hot shower, she makes her way downstairs, practically throws herself at Frankie’s feet. She’d intended to apologize for the night before _ — _ and she does _ — _ but then she can’t stop the words that come rushing out of her. There are apologies to be made for the years of judgmental looks and constant complaints, for the first few months after the first divorce and all the things she’d said about her one real friend to the women who were never really her friends, for the terrible drunken rant in front of Frankie’s whole family that had come back to Grace in flashes and snippets later, each returned memory making her hate herself more and more. There is forgiveness still to be begged for over every instance of doubting Frankie, of telling her, in word and in deed, that she was incompetent. There are still reparations to be made for the years of denying this thing growing between them, for running off and marrying Nick because it seemed easier, and now, for pushing Frankie away again because it seemed safer than being the one people talked about when she left the room. 

By the time she finishes, she feels hollow and empty, her cheeks stained with tear tracks and her whole body trembling. But Frankie doesn’t leave her in anxious suspense as penance, doesn’t prolong the fight to make Grace earn her forgiveness; she sweeps Grace up in her arms and kisses away the tears and thanks Grace for the words, thanks Grace for meaning them _ — _ somehow she can tell, knows deep inside that they are sincere. With her head on Frankie’s chest, Grace lets out a deep breath, and she swears the next inhale seems to reach down to someplace new, filling her up with fresh air in ways her body had never believed were possible. 

\---

_ The Act of Contrition comes more easily than the list of sins. Long-memorized words recited into the stillness of the confessional. She’s been given her penance already; five Hail Marys and two Our Fathers, and she’ll be washed of the past, allowed to move forward, start clean, act as if there had been no night where everything felt good and right for the first time in her life. She will feel proper again. Better. She will never be that girl that gets whispered about before her family has stepped far enough away to miss the words. And then Father Patrick is reciting the old Latin phrases, comfortable in their strangeness, the language a welcome distance between her and the whole ordeal. “Misereatur tui ominipotens Deus, et dimissis peccatis tuis, perducat te ad vitam aeternam. Amen.” _

\---

Frankie doesn’t care when people stare. “Let them look!” she cries out, smile wide and open, an invitation to anyone around to share in that happiness with her. Sometimes Grace even manages to feel it herself. Somewhere along the way, she’d become the kind of woman who could stand on a college campus and hold up a vibrator that she designed, that she created, that she admitted, at least implicitly, to using. She’d become a squatter who slept beside pigs in a house she didn’t own, using electricity she didn’t pay for, while family members and strangers alike gawked down at her as if she were some kind of spectacle. She’d become someone who cried, albeit sparingly, in front of other people, admitted that she felt things, talked about things she wanted, even the things she wanted too much, the kind of wants that swept through her, leaving a burning trail of shame and unresolved need in their wake. And instead of laughing and scoffing and pushing her away, Frankie had opened her arms wider, told Grace she could want those things, told her she could give her those things, let her have those things in abundance without shame or judgment or guilt or apology. 

\---

_ Grace kneels in an empty pew as soon as she’s done to say her penance. When she’s finished, she sits back, the hard wood pressing up against her spine in a slightly painful way that has always felt fitting. She stays there and waits for the Sunday morning service to begin. She listens to the half-familiar Latin words, and gives the responses at the proper times, and sits and stands and kneels in turn, and lines up with everyone to receive the only carb she voluntarily eats (knows it must be sacrilege to call the Body of Christ a carb), and tells herself that it will all be okay.  _

\---

Frankie is a firm believer in carbs. She swears they’ve got healing powers. Pasta in olive oil with salt (too much salt, Grace would tell her these days) and a bit of garlic for any illness because “The Italians sure did get that one right, Grace!” Thick-sliced challah bread turned into French toast for special occasions. Homemade cakes that Grace knows better than to question these days for celebrations. Donuts and croissants and cereal for ordinary breakfasts, as if such indulgences can be had daily. But still, when Frankie joins Grace in bed, slipping under the covers, the wool of her socks slightly scratchy against Grace’s bare skin, and offers her a plate or bowl with extra of whatever she’s chosen for the morning, Grace doesn’t push it away in the way she had with Robert or the children on Mother’s Day mornings. Instead, she takes small bites, lets herself relax into the buttery flakes of a croissant, even if she’ll never finish the whole thing, takes comfort in the knowledge that Frankie won’t push her on it, won’t purse her lips or scowl when she goes downstairs and fixes herself some fruit to round out the meal. 

\---

_ Grace doesn’t stick around to mingle after the service—being away from the crowds of too familiar parishioners back at Holy Trinity would have made the disappearing act impossible, but here she can manage it so long as she moves quickly. The fresh air hits her skin and ruffles the hem of her dress slightly. She’s been absolved. Done her penance. Sat through the service. But she doesn’t feel any better for it. That magic sense of purity, of some blank slate stretched out in front of her, is gone. She’s just a 26-year-old unmarried woman who’s gone and sworn to God that she’ll never again do the only thing that’s made her feel like a life worth living is before her. She tells herself it’s better this way, that she’ll find her path again. She hopes it’s true.  _

\---

Trying not to wake Frankie, Grace slips out of bed, biting back a groan as her joints creak and pop, her skin still bare from the night before and coated in a thin film of dried sweat. She walks quietly to the bathroom and eases the door shut. Within an hour, she’s showered and dressed in one of her loose, soft sweaters _ — _ perfect for the overcast morning, the threat of rain hovering in the air but distant enough to allow Grace hope for a quiet morning on the beach. Downstairs, she measures out coffee grounds _ — _ from the Fair Trade-certified beans she buys now because Frankie has asked her to _ — _ and then the water, sets the pot to brew, and steps back. While she waits, she goes through her morning rituals. Vitamins. Supplements. A yogurt with fresh fruit. The two pills she isn’t supposed to take on an empty stomach. When the coffee is ready, she pours some into the mug Frankie had gotten her for Pride month and leaves a Post It note next to the pot to let Frankie know it’s fresh.

Once she has her coffee, Grace pauses at the stack of books. She knows which one she’d like to take, but there are the two graphic novels Frankie has bought for her, still adorned with a bright pink Post It note: “Grace! I need someone to talk to about these. Plz read them. P.S. I know how you feel about comic books, but old MacArthur swears she’s a genius.” Grace looks at them, finally grabbing the one on top, before making her way out the back door. It’s not quite chilly outside, but she’s grateful for the sweater and the hot coffee as she settles into one of the armchairs overlooking the ocean. 

At some point _ — _ Grace has lost track of time _ — _ Frankie comes outside to join her, grinning as she spots the copy of  _ Fun Home _ with the Post It carefully folded in half to be used as a bookmark _ — _ no dog-eared pages for Grace Hanson, no sir. “Move over. I want to sit with you”

“There’s a perfectly serviceable chair right there,” Grace grumbles, but she’s already moving over as far to one side as she can. 

Frankie finally manages to find a spot that’s halfway comfortable, and she celebrates by taking one of Grace’s hands in her own. It’s not quite so easy as sitting side-by-side together in the beach chairs the way they once had, but Grace finds she doesn’t mind the change to their routine, not when it means Frankie’s thumbs rubbing soft circles against the backs of her hands, the warmth of Frankie’s body pressed right up against the full length of her body. 

For a while, they watch the ocean together. The beach is still and almost silent in the gray morning _ — _ the only sounds the soft crash of the waves falling against the water and rushing up the sand until they fade to nothing but a thin foam and remnants of the ocean life left behind. 

Grace drops her head to Frankie’s shoulder, gently squeezes Frankie’s hand. “I love you,” she says, still facing out to sea, her voice loud in the silence. But it doesn’t matter who hears. She wants them to know, has a delicate, smooth ring of white gold in a drawer in the desk in the old office neither of them use that will tell the whole world that Frankie is hers, and she is Frankie’s, and they are each other’s. She’s waited too long, denied herself for too many years, to sit back and refuse this small mercy she so desperately wants to last forever. 

Frankie turns inwards, kisses her softly, her lips chapped and her breath smelling faintly of coffee and Fruit Loops. “Love you too.” 

The words came easily for Frankie _ — _ much more easily than certain actions had, a different kind of openness, of vulnerability, of intimacy _ — _ but Grace has never doubted them, not even for a second. And day by day she’s learning to trust them, to let them find those dark, walled off spaces inside her and warm them with their insistent refrain of forgiveness given freely, of love gifted openly, of new futures opened wide before her. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr and Twitter @sapphicscholar


End file.
